A telephone is not Buddha. A telephone is not Yorick’s

skull. A telephone is not Tintin, a pocketknife

or a fountain pen, nor is it a healing wound.
A telephone is not a broken relationship, not lemon

soap, nor sea glass. A telephone is not a portal

to your lost past, nor a bonsai.
A telephone is not the answer, not a stack of books

to be read. A telephone is not a pencil sharpener,

a suit of armour, an ancient clock. 
A telephone is not hope, not a cure for Alzheimer’s.

A telephone cannot cheat death. A telephone

is not immortal, not your father’s thermometer.
A telephone is not a record player, a globe or a colour

printer. A telephone is not a twenty-pound weight,

nor a skateboard. A telephone is not a toolbox.
A telephone is not a map of your ancestors’ homeplaces,

not a framed portrait of your loved ones, nor your absent

daughter, mother, father, brother or sister.
A telephone is not your late great-grandmother’s

sherry glass. A telephone is not a box of letters

from lost friends, nor an overflowing rubbish bin.
A telephone is not a yoga mat, not a bookcase,

a framed poem written in blood or a declaration

of independence, nor is it a candle.
A telephone is not your paternal grandfather’s

beer glass, not a photo album or home movie,

nor a wetsuit, helmet or kneepads.
A telephone is not a coffee mug, not a Marshall

amplifier, a set of Bose speakers, nor a Swiss watch.

A telephone is not a map of the Great Ocean Road.
A telephone is not hand moisturizer, sanitizer,

lens cleaner. A telephone is not a water bottle.

A telephone is not a hip flask or shoe brush.
A telephone is not a rough draft of a memoir,

a sharpened blue pencil, nor a postage stamp,

a sliding barn door, or a red wheelbarrow.
A telephone is not a pair of black Doc Martens,

not a desk lamp or lip balm, nor a pair of spectacles

or chopsticks. A telephone is not a credit card.
A telephone is not a driver’s license or a passport,

not a bookmark, paper weight or magnifying glass,

nor is it a prayer uttered by the Dalai Lama.
A telephone is not a twelve-page handwritten

letter from your high school best friend,

nor is it an instruction manual.
A telephone is not a lifeline, not a miracle,

not a homecoming, nor is it your paternal

grandfather’s dusty green corduroy cap.